


Fighting Through Flames

by fckyeahgallavich



Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Dark, Dealing With Trauma, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Healing, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mentioned Svetlana Milkovich, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Reflection, Supportive Ian Gallagher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25370044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fckyeahgallavich/pseuds/fckyeahgallavich
Summary: Ian wants to change things up, he wants to feel Mickey inside of him. And Mickey's all for giving Ian what he wants... But as he's trying, his mind conjures up unbearable images from the past and while he can usually push them away, this time it's too much.He'd tried so fucking hard to keep this shit to himself, but Ian assures him that he never had to.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 18
Kudos: 192





	Fighting Through Flames

**Author's Note:**

> I am providing a very stern trigger warning for descriptions of Mickey's sexual assault in 3x666. I started writing this piece when I myself was triggered very, very hard and, like Mickey, it kinda came out of nowhere yet the memories were visceral af. For that reason I do think this piece is especially dark and sensory and want to advise anyone who may be triggered by the subject matter and detailed descriptions of experiencing these kinds of flashbacks to please protect yourself and not read. I considered not publishing it but I do think it is important to showcase that PTSD and recovery from trauma of any sort is not a linear progression and to show Mickey working through it with a strong support system by his side -- something the show will never show us though I think is important to see.
> 
> The title is inspired by Kesha's "Praying," a song that has been profoundly impactful in my own recovery

“I bottom too now, if you want to shake things up,” he’d said roughly two years ago. The statement had been so ridiculous then. Ian Gallagher _bottoming_ ? And Mickey Milkovich _topping_ when the option to bottom was so freely available? 

Laughable. Fucking _laughable_.

Two years later, though, and now Ian was craving it — or at least that was the impression Mickey got from Ian’s wanton spread of his legs and devilish grin. Of course Mickey had topped before, and he’d enjoyed it fine. There was just something in this present moment that churned his stomach at the idea…

But he couldn’t very well tell _Ian_ that… Not when he was so into it, so ready… Grinning at him like that with his bottom lip locked between his teeth as Mickey slipped between his thighs and ran a tattooed hand up one of them. At this stage in the game, Ian was likely to take the rejection personally, and there was nothing personal about it. But most important was that Mickey did want to please him, was more than happy to switch positions if this was what his partner wanted. They exchanged shy but loving looks as Mickey prepped him, being sure to take it slow since it had been so long since the last time Ian did this.

At first, Mickey had grinned at the sight of Ian so clearly ready for and _wanting_ him. Seeing his husband so far gone for him was _everything._

But now… Poised between the redhead’s raised legs… Every muscle in his body told him to stop… His mind conjuring long-since repressed images and sensations.

His erection flagged slightly at the memory… _freshly manicured fingers wrapped around his biceps_ right where Ian’s slightly calloused fingers clenched at him in anticipation and passion.

Mickey ignored this vision, the contrasting sensations at war in his head, and started to make love to his husband — his husband who gasped and moaned as Mickey inched deeper into him… With each inch, Ian spread his legs wider, tilted his hips higher with an impatient whine from the back of his throat. Ian was _ready…_ So why wasn’t Mickey?

His flesh felt like it was on fire where their skin met. _Her thighs caged his hips to her, nowhere to escape. The only way out was in — to keep going. His brain and his heart screamed at him to stop — but the gun mere six feet away ensured the completion of this task._

For years that was how he’d looked at that deed — a task. Another thing he’d had to do to keep Terry happy, like robbing local store-owners he had no personal beef with, dealing to kids at school, etc.

Now, almost ten years later, Mickey was starting to think that “task” wasn’t the right way to think about it…

He tried to focus on Ian’s face, that blissed out face, as he willed his body to respond to the _present._

But that feeling of fire… That rising panic in his chest… 

_Fuck!_

_There she was, rising and falling on him, pushing and pulling under him; soft moans sounding from her chest as they moved…_ Like the breathy, satisfied sighs filling his ears from the man under him now…

_His face was contorted with pain sitting there, watching this all happen and being powerless to stop it and Mickey knew Ian wanted it to be over more than he’d ever wanted anything —_

“You okay?” Mickey asked, stilling his movement as his stomach slightly churned at the worry that he was hurting his partner. Ian’s eyes flashed open and he smiled brightly, green eyes even more vivid than usual from his excitement.

“Fuckin great — don’t stop!” He raised his hips to emphasize the request and so Mickey obliged, pulling out and driving back in with so much force Ian’s hand flew to cover his mouth — _the fist acted like a gag on Ian’s mouth as Mickey could practically see the screams for mercy sitting at the very front of his chest, stained with drops of blood from the beating Terry —_

 _Her inner walls compressed around him,_ no wait, that was Ian now as he— 

“I can’t —” Mickey snapped, tearing his hips back, eliciting a half whine, half wince from Ian. Mickey scrambled to the opposite side of the bed and ripped at the covers to conceal his naked body, bringing his knees to his chest to make himself as small as possible, as though guarding himself from a violent blow.

Ian sat straight up and that wicked grin of his quickly faded when he took in Mickey’s posture — hunched over, curled small.

“Mick?” Ian murmured. His tone was confused, shocked, and sad. Mickey just shook his head absently and brushed his hands over the fire, trying desperately to bat away the sensations of _her_ on him. But for as many times as he physically rubbed at his skin, he couldn’t get the texture… the shape… the sharpness of her nails out of his head. He _knew_ it was all in his head, but what the fuck did knowing that do when it felt so fucking _visceral?!_

What the fuck _was_ this? He hadn’t allowed himself to think about this shit in _years,_ since before he went to prison the first time. If something ever did remind him of it or if a memory would somehow perk up in his mind, he was always able to let the memories go and return to the present. Every other time but this one...

He hated this.

Words couldn’t express how much he hated this.

He felt filthy… and his whole groin radiated with a sensation he couldn’t explain… It was like... Like that feeling in the chest when you want to breathe more deeply but can’t and the whole core burns with the need for air…. Only completely focused between his legs.

Tightness… His chest felt tight, his legs felt tight, his stomach felt tight… But his groin was on fire, and it made him gag. The lube felt too similar to... He really did gag and he took the sheet they'd kicked to the foot of the bed and aggressively wiped it all away, shaking his head all the while.

But ridding himself of that didn't eliminate the burning sensation, the phantom razors dragging along his skin as he relived that moment.

He swallowed thickly and breathed deeply, working to settle his stomach. 

“Mick?” Ian asked again. Mickey wrapped his arms protectively around himself before hesitantly turning his attention to Ian whose eyes were wide as saucers. He quickly turned his attention back to the tent in the covers created from his knees, eyes trained on the straining wrinkles in the fabric.

“I — I don’t know where this is coming from," he mumbled awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. "I’m sorry,” he added in a breath.

“Are you okay?” Ian practically whispered. Mickey couldn’t lie to him… but he couldn’t share with him the minute details of that day _still_ running through his mind. 

Ian moved forward, arms outstretched, and Mickey jumped away hissing “Don’t!” on instinct. Ian flinched back at Mickey’s abrupt movement and the sharpness of his voice. Mickey breathed deep and looked regretfully to Ian whose green eyes filled with so much hurt that it sent a slash across Mickey’s own chest for being the one to make him look and feel that way. “Please… don’t touch me right now,” he repeated softer.

The strangest thing was, he wanted to be held — and he wanted Ian to be the one to hold him… to tell him he’s okay and he’s got him. He wanted to lay back against Ian’s chest, to feel the strong legs that had been wrapped around his waist on either side of him _supporting him_ now. But even remembering his legs there reminded him of —

He wanted Ian's arms encasing him, keeping him secure against his chest. He wanted to feel the muscles of his biceps flex against his own as Ian hugged him. He wanted to feel the warmth of his chest against his back and the _thump_ of his heartbeat so he could time his breaths with it.

But the thought of actually being touched right now was unbearable, set his whole body up in a flame that screamed NO. 

So, regardless of what he _wanted,_ it didn’t matter right now because there was something going on in his brain and in the core of his stomach that demanded he not be touched. 

He trembled, like a shiver erupting through his center, radiating out, but he wasn’t cold… Or, or maybe he was? His fingertips were cold, he suddenly realized as he rubbed them back and forth over each other and against his palms. But his cheeks and back felt hot, even hotter when he ran his frozen fingers into his hair before rubbing at his eyes as he usually did when frustrated or overwhelmed.

Ian nodded and leaned back against the wall, cupping the back of his neck with the hand he had reached out.

“Sorry…” Mickey repeated morosely. _A hand rest against his chest… A ghost hand of flame and needles,_ and Mickey doubled over, begging with his brain to stop this torture. 

He could practically feel Ian’s desire to touch him — probably a supportive caress across the shoulder blades and down his back. But thankfully (and regretfully all at the same time) Ian kept his hands to himself. Mickey focused on his breathing — that _is_ what you’re supposed to do when you’re having a panic attack, right?

“I’m so sorry,” Mickey breathed into his comforter-covered knees.

“Mick? What’s wrong?” Ian’s voice was soft and calm, but it was a forced calm, practiced from his EMT days. The “what’s wrong?” may as well have been a “where does it hurt?”

Mickey slowly released an exhale from his slightly open mouth and wiped his cheeks clean of hot moisture.

He sat up, but just continued breathing, relieved when his heart rate slowly started returning to normal and his chest, though still tight, released just enough that he could feel his breath fill up his lungs and could focus on that instead of the images playing in his mind.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes clamping shut.

“You’ve said that,” Ian reminded gently. “And there’s nothing to be sorry for.” Mickey nodded because he knew that was true… But knowing it and believing it are two totally different things — especially when the thing you’re apologizing for directly hurts someone you love.

“Is it from…?” Ian didn’t finish — he didn’t need to. They both knew the answer. Still, Mickey nodded to confirm. Neither he nor Ian had ever put a name or title to what had happened to him all those years ago. They just both knew that it had fucked with him. It was the reason he had backed away from Ian so much before he married Svetlana and was the reason he used to jerk awake most mornings, even in prison. Apparently, though, despite never having talked about it before... The way he reacted to what they were doing was enough to finally put those last two pieces of the puzzle together about what had happened.

He allowed his head to fall to the side to face his partner but had to turn back to face away.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Mickey pleaded with disgust.

“Like what?” Ian asked, puzzled.

“I don’t want your fuckin pity.” 

Beside him, Ian sighed and he could practically feel the potential energy in the air from where Ian wanted to plop himself by Mickey’s side, but refrained.

“I just want to know what I can do to help, Mick,” he replied sadly. Mickey shook his head vehemently as more images danced, unbidden, in his mind. This time, he remembered the way she used to try to entice him to perform “husbandly duties” or offered her “wifely duties.” He knew now that she wasn’t trying to be an asshole about it. Their marriage was as much a performance for her as it was for him and he _knew_ that. But… _fuck,_ knowing something like that didn’t erase the way that his body reacted then or how his body remembers it now. He bit his lip, closed his eyes, and did everything he could to quash the memories.

“Mick?” Mickey opened his eyes but didn’t turn to face his husband. “Try… try focusing on things in the room. In the present, you know? See if those things can bring you out of it…” Ian suggested gently, almost pleadingly. The way Ian’s tone quaked almost made Mickey feel like Ian was sharing his pain; like he wanted it to be over and wanted to take that pain away from Mickey so badly that it was causing pain of his own. Mickey huffed a harsh breath and let his eyes dart around the room, looking for something _worth_ focusing on.

“You start takin’ night classes to be a counselor or some shit, Gallagher?” The snark was surface-level at best and he knew that Ian knew it. It was a coping mechanism they both shared — turn whatever pain they’re enduring, whatever bullshit they’re going through into a joke and try not to let it bother you as much as it does. If he didn’t know better, he could’ve sworn he heard Ian chuckle a little from his seat against the wall.

He followed the advice though, and as his eyes settled on various items from their life together so far — the new dresser they bought to replace the one from 1978 with full intentions of purchasing all other future furniture to match; the medical dictionaries stacked to the left serving as a book-end to the short line of mystery novels Ian got into in prison and the flask that Ian had sitting on top of it, blood stains and all; the cologne Mickey got Ian for his birthday that had cost about a quarter of his check, but was worth it for the _smell;_ the pile of coins from both their pockets that Mickey suddenly remembered he wanted to roll as a form of “savings” — he did slowly start feeling more present. His stomach still rolled and his legs still trembled as he tried to figure out how to end the sensations running along his groin and against his chest… but he could breathe. His heart beat in hard shudders, but he could breathe… and the images were gone.

He allowed his eyes to trace the edges of the sliding door to their bedroom and remembered when he’d returned to the Gallagher house after they were _finally_ and _officially_ engaged… the first time they walked through that door as husbands… He wanted to smile at the memories now being conjured, and would have if not for the way his throat suddenly tightened as though being squeezed. He swallowed hard, frustrated that his body was not catching up to his brain.

Each time another image from that day popped up he was able to deflect with an image in front of him. But the exercise didn't seem to calm him down much.... though his body temperature was settling somewhat back to normal.

“You can’t force it, Mick,” Ian murmured. Mickey closed his eyes and huffed out a harsh breath through his nose. “But don’t give up if it was calming you down… Just give yourself time…” This time Mickey’s breath was almost a dark laugh.

“ _Time_ ,” Mickey remarked coldly. “As though it didn’t happen ten fucking years ago, but sure I need more _time.”_

He didn’t look at Ian’s face… He couldn’t handle seeing Ian’s face right now. He didn’t know if his sarcasm hurt Ian or not and he didn’t want to know for now because he couldn’t handle more guilt if it had. Ian did remain silent, though that could just be because Ian was out of his element with this. 

"Is this the first time something like this has happened?" Ian asked gently. Mickey's brows furrowed as he thought about the question. Any time these thoughts had cropped up for Mickey it was usually right as they were finishing up or he would be able to squash them down and _really_ be in the now and just feel what they were doing. But… come to think of it, usually when he did that he wound up feeling weird after… Wouldn’t let Ian touch him, put on his clothes and go outside for a smoke almost immediately after, that sort of weird.

"Never so bad that I had to stop..." Mickey murmured a little cagily. He wasn't exactly sure how to answer the question because no, this wasn't the first time he'd had a weird, unpleasant swirly feeling in his gut or the first time his mind conjured images from that day during sex (or at some random point with absolutely nothing to do with sex whatsoever), but this was the first time he'd not been able to press on.

"You..." Ian sighed and furrowed his brows as his mind seemed to race through multiple thoughts at once. "You've had something like this happen before?" Ian gaped. One of Mickey's brows arched and he turned to look at him.

"I mean... Sort of. Nothing like this, though," he assured, tone still off... defensive almost. Ian's legs were pulled up to his chest now too; his arms were wrapped around his legs to keep his knees close together and to his chest, as though trying to stay as far out of Mickey's space as possible. Ian's face blanched and Mickey could practically see a lightbulb ignite above his red hair.

"With _me?"_ was his choked question. Mickey's blood turned to ice in his veins and he shivered, his stomach roiled again as a sudden surge of that... prickly sensation worked its way down his legs... Like when her hand—

“I don’t know, I just… I thought if I did it and got into it that my brain would just… chill and go with it.” Ian visibly cringed and Mickey arched a brow.

“That doesn’t sound like consent, Mick…" Ian murmured sadly, no... Remorsefully. "That sounds like you were forcing yourself to do it to make me happy or something...” Mickey furrowed his brow.

“I _wanted_ to do it,” he insisted a little defensively. “That’s the thing that pisses me off the most. It’s not even that I didn’t want to. I was hopin’ it would just go away like it always does — ”

“Always does?” Ian echoed, perplexed. His voice cracked and Mickey turned his attention to Ian’s face, brows raised at the panicked tone in his partner’s voice. Ian looked _horrified._ His eyes wide under furrowed brows and mouth slightly ajar as he struggled for his next words. “You mean you’ve made yourself keep going with me before?”

“Jesus, when you say it like that it sounds… violent.” Mickey shuddered. Ian’s eyes glistened in the dim lamp light.

“It _feels_ violent… Knowing you’ve wanted to stop but we kept going..." Ian huffed out a sad, almost disgusted breath. His skin was stark white, all color drained and... God the look on his face, he looked like he hated himself. "You... You never said anything," Ian choked. "Why didn’t say anything?" Jesus, he sounded like he felt betrayed or something. Mickey wasn't sure what to feel by this reaction. He'd done it so he could please Ian, so things would be normal. Why was he acting like Mickey somehow betrayed his trust or something? "Why didn’t you?” Ian blurted again, hurt still prevalent in his tone but the quality of his voice firm, stronger. Determined.

"Why didn't I what?" He asked.

"Why didn't you tell me to stop when you were uncomfortable?" Mickey shrank back a little, resentful that Ian seemed to be implying that he'd done something wrong when Mickey had just tried to be a good partner and not let Ian get inconvenienced by his bullshit. Ian caught these shifts in Mickey’s body and his face fell as though panicked. “Shit… That made it sound like I’m blaming you or something… I just…” Ian sighed a damn near remorseful sound as his face crumpled and he put his face in his hands for a brief moment before running his fingers through his hair. Now it was he who wanted to hold Ian rather than be held. Ian shook his head and ran a hand (his left hand, rings glinting in the lamp light) across his face as he gathered a strong, slow breath, lightly pinching at the corners of his eyes. He took his time but eventually he looked back up to Mickey's face with the sincerest, most serious expression Mickey had seen on Ian in a long, long time.

“Don’t feel like you can’t say no once we’ve started… I don’t —” he breathed out again and seemed to chew over his words. “If it ever turned out that I’ve hurt you in some way and didn’t even know…” he shook his head, emphasizing how unthinkable it was to him. “I’d fuckin hate myself." This time it was Mickey's face that crumpled and he hid it behind a hand while he continued to listen. "You are the last person I’d ever want to hurt, Mick, don’t you know that?” Mickey breathed deep, schooled his expression, and raised his head to continue the exercise Ian had suggested. This time he looked at the lamp, an insanely old thing ("antique" according to the local store they bought it from) with a paned glass lamp shade that they had no business owning, but they'd both liked it and decided it would be a focal point to their living room or bedroom when they someday acquire a place of their own. His stomach lurched at the thought of that someday, his heart picked up pace at the reminder of their future together that has only just begun and he realized, though tried not to actively think about it so as not to jinx it, that the sensations in his legs, groin, chest, were melting away.

Mickey stared at the ink on his knuckles and barely contained a sardonic laugh at the sick irony — “Fuck U-Up” emblazoned on the hands of someone so fragile… so broken that he can’t even fuck his own husband the way they both want. Mickey shook his head to release that disgusting thought from his head.

He wasn’t broken, he wasn’t fragile. This is just one of those things that just… suck sometimes.

“I just want us to be normal,” Mickey finally murmured. “To have sex when we want, how we want it, for however long we want. I don’t want you to be limited because of my bullshit.” Ian sighed and even from his periphery he could see Ian shaking his head.

“Even people who have never gone through what you have can have these moments, Mick. Sometimes people just don’t _want_ to and that’s okay. If there’s ever something I want that you don’t want to do, you have the right to say no and that _is_ normal.” Ian insisted.

“It’s _not_ that I didn’t _want_ to,” Mickey huffed a little forcefully, rubbing at his temple a little too roughly. Ian just watched Mickey’s face for a long time before finally nodding.

“Then if there’s ever something you can’t do… Or you need to slow down or hit the pause button — _Whatever_ … You can tell me,” Ian promised. Mickey shook his head and sighed.

“I shouldn't _have_ to," Mickey grunted resentfully. Ian visibly stopped short as he cut himself off from saying something without thinking it through. He released a deep breath through his nose and eventually nodded.

"You're right, you shouldn't have to. Especially not for that reason, but you also shouldn't feel like you have to force yourself to do something when you're not comfortable with it." Mickey tipped his head back so it rested against the wall and he stared at the ceiling for a brief moment of silence.

"I just don’t want you thinkin’ it’s you or that you’re doin’ something wrong…” When Ian didn’t respond for a long moment Mickey turned to look into Ian’s eyes. Ian’s face was set in a grimace and his brow communicated how hard he was thinking, that he was chewing over his words. “What?” Ian blew out a breath, apparently committing to saying whatever it was that he was thinking.

“If anything, Mick, _this —_ pulling away from me and snapping at me out of the blue… If anything, that’s what’s going to make me feel like I did something wrong." Mickey closed his eyes and did everything he could to focus on anything but the way he still felt so _dirty,_ the way he still wanted to crawl out of his own skin and just... disconnect. Beside him, he heard Ian groan and he turned his attention back to him. "I'm makin' it worse," he grimaced. "I'm not saying you were wrong to pull away or —"

"You don't have to explain," Mickey grumbled. Ian's sad eyes trailed over Mickey's face, expression practically pleading to know what to say or do next. Ian opened his mouth several times, closing it almost immediately after as he wrestled with what to say next. It was several minutes of silence before Ian finally spoke up again.

"I get why you didn't want to say anything... I get why you wanted to just... keep going. But you don't have to, Mick." 

Something in Mickey's stomach and chest squeezed.

He fuckin' hated this. If they were any other couple, if Ian were with practically anyone else, they'd have just continued fucking and, hell, they might be on to round two by now. _Stupid, stupid, **stupid!**_

"Mick?" 

Mickey huffed, a little irritated, and turned to face him again. Ian's eyes were just... God, they were so fuckin sad, so desperate to make things better.

His body was finally starting to chill out. The sensations from before were mostly gone and he was able to control his thoughts again, make himself think about the present or even the future. He still felt strangely, though. Like... Like he wasn't completely present, like he had a foot back in the past or something. Like all of those memories, though behind him, still had a tether on his spine and at any time they could yank him back.

He felt fuckin fragile.

And he hated that.

He allowed his legs to relax under the covers, to fall open in a crossed-seat position, and sighed, leaning back against the wall to let his head rest. He felt so heavy right now... overburdened.

"Can I do anything for you? Get you anything?" Ian asked. Mickey shook his head no and could practically feel Ian's responding grimace. "I'm getting up," Ian announced quietly before twisting his body around and indeed standing. Mickey's eyes naturally followed him as he pulled on his boxers and a tee-shirt from the floor and opened the chest of drawers. After some rifling, he pulled out one of his brand new cotton V-neck tee-shirts and sank to the bottom drawer to continue searching for something. From the bottom drawer he pulled out another pair of boxers, crisp with clean, and a pair of thick flannel pajama bottoms. Mickey's brows furrowed in confusion.

"C'mere," Ian murmured at the foot of the bed, leaving enough room for Mickey to scoot to the edge. Mickey did so and watched as Ian unfolded the soft shirt and accepted the offered fabric. He pulled it on over his head and when the thing was set over his torso, the boxers and flannel were in either of Ian's outstretched hands.

He forewent the boxers, accepting the pajama pants, and tossed the cover to the side, legs prickling at the sudden temperature change from cocoon warm to regular room-temp air, and slid the pants on over his legs, hopping up a little bit to complete the process. Ian was standing close but he made no move to touch him, though again, Mickey could practically feel the desire to radiating off him.

Mickey placed his fingertips inside the curve of Ian's palm resting at his side and held the other hand out to wait for Ian's other hand. Ian's eyes softened from the hard edged worry and sadness as he offered the other hand to him.

"I'm sorry," Mickey whispered again. Ian shook his head.

"Please stop apologizing," he pleaded. Mickey sighed and looked to the bedside table. Ian didn't force him to return his gaze to him. "I just hope it wasn't anything I did to make you feel like you couldn't say anything..." Mickey shook his head.

"Just... Didn't think I'd ever need to." Ian's hand jerked and Mickey knew that it was him trying to touch Mickey but stopping himself. "And don't expect me to tell you every time I get a reminder or somethin'. Everything's worked out fine so far, I'm not lookin' to make anything awkward." He returned his attention to Ian's face to find furrowed brows, almost angry.

"Awkward? Mickey, it's about your comfort..."

"Yeah, and normally I'm fine. I don't need you checkin' in on me every ten seconds for the next two weeks because you think I'm fuckin _broken_ or some shit."

"Broken? What the fuck?" The gentleness in Ian's tone was gone. Good.

He didn't need Ian treating him like some china doll just because he had one freak-out. Ian pleaded with his eyes for Mickey to explain further but he couldn't. Not really.

"Just... don't make this a big thing, Ian. Please?" 

Ian licked at his bottom lip before clamping his teeth down over it, worrying it as he seemed to think through their change in pace.

"I want..." Mickey sighed. "I want things to be normal, a'right? I don't want —"

"Mickey..." Ian breathed harshly and startled Mickey a little bit as he plopped down to the floor, crossing his legs to sit, and looked up into his eyes. "I'm not saying you have to check in with me every hour about how your feeling or tell me any details about whatever is going on when something like this happens... Just..." he exhaled sharply and visibly restrained himself from removing his hand from Mickey's to touch him somewhere else. "If you're not feeling 'right' or whatever, fuckin tell me in _your_ way. You don't have to keep that shit to yourself just to please _me._ I fuckin _hate_ that you kept it to yourself thinkin' you were doin' the right thing for _me,_ that's —" he shook his head for emphasis. "That's not fair to you. And, for that matter, it's not fair to me."

"I'm tellin' you, it's not only about you, it's not like I _didn't_ want it too—"

"I know... I hear you," Ian promised. Mickey sighed and shook his head as another wave of discomfort and unease washed over him. He hated feeling like he was being mollified or empathized with. He hated that there was anything that needed to be empathized with at all. And Ian was being so _patient_ and... Yeah, he appreciated it. Like, more than he could possibly explain, but that patience was part of his discomfort. It had always been so much easier to just shove it away, keep going, let the memories and moments of weirdness go...

Now it's a _thing_ and he knows Ian will never forget about it. Even if he holds true to what he's saying and doesn't hover or insist on details... It's going to exist in Ian's mind too. Would he keep asking himself when they're in bed together if Mickey's okay or if Mickey's upset? Will he suddenly stop reading Mickey's body like he knows how because his own head gets too crowded with bullshit worries about if something is going to set Mickey off or if Mickey's hiding something?

"I need a shower," Mickey grumbled, taking his hands away from Ian's. Ian let him go easily, lifting his knee so that Mickey could step around him.

Getting clean did wonders for the 'dirty' feeling, like he was able to wash away all of her phantom touches and other forms of presence on his body. He was still shaken up though, and he couldn't pretend otherwise. He felt... jittery, like after a car almost hits you and the adrenaline gives a 'life-flashing-before-your-eyes' moment and spend the rest of the day sullen thinking about what would have happened _had_ the car hit. Like the several days after that day...

He shuddered again and returned to washing himself, mindful not to scrub too hard. Unlike that time he was not covered in bruises and his face didn't pound and throb with every patter of water against his skin or dip in his head to watch where he washed. This time, he was healthy... safe... loved... 

He allowed the water to rinse suds out from under his wedding rings, twisting them and lifting them away from the skin to be thorough.

So much has changed since that day. He ran his hands through his hair and let the warm spray cascade over him, comfort him.

He took his time with the softest towel that he could find in the linen closet, patting himself down and recognizing that, though he still felt a little hollow, a little shifty in his own skin, the sensations were gone and he had his mind back in his own control. He focused on his breathing, allowing the oxygen to flow from his nose, down into his chest to expand his lungs and chest out, and then push the air back out with patient and easy pressure.

He didn't know what the fuck had triggered _that,_ whatever _that_ was, but he was just glad to be over the worst of it for now, praying simultaneously that it wouldn't happen again (though he suspected it would).

He took care to hang the towel over the shower rod and pulled the soft flannel pajama bottoms and tee-shirt back on, allowing himself to feel just a little comforted by the pleasant softness of it. It wasn't a cure to the way he was still feeling, but it was nice, and it was a little something Ian had thought of to bring comfort when he knew that he himself couldn't in the way that usually worked.

First checking the bedroom but finding it empty, Mickey ventured down the stairs to the kitchen and found Ian and the next place he figured to find him: at the stove.

"Hey," Ian smiled warmly. Mickey raised his brows in greeting, crossing to the island and pulling up onto a stool. "Thought I'd make some pancakes for dinner." Mickey's one brow arched higher than the other and he felt his expression shift into something sardonic.

"At 11PM?" Mickey asked with faux judgement. Ian shrugged.

"Any time can be breakfast time."

Though he appreciated what Ian had said in their bedroom, he _really_ appreciated Ian allowing it to just drop. There wasn't anything more to say, really.

"Chocolate chip or blueberry?" Ian questioned, finishing up whisking the batter.

"What do you think?" Mickey snarked. Ian rolled his eyes and nodded.

"Yeah, yeah. I forgot, I'm married to Willie Wonka."

"As long as that don't make you one of those carrot-stick dudes," Mickey shot back. Ian threw his head back and laughed, but it wasn't forced. It was natural, _they_ were natural.

So... maybe checking in with Ian like he suggested could be natural too? Mickey shook his head at the thought.

 _Gah,_ it was just _too_ weird! It was so much _easier_ to just let it be and do the damn thing...

But then Ian's words rang through his ears again, _And, for that matter, it's not fair to me._

Mickey's face fell a little.

He was right... It wasn't fair to either of them. Mickey closed his eyes and ran a hand through the wet strands of hair at the top of his head, lightly massaging the back of his neck. Ian said nothing, continuing to give Mickey his space to sort through it.

After several more minutes of quiet Ian had a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes ready for eating and Mickey was finally ready to be touched. He lowered himself from the stool and walked around the island to his husband. Ian laid the bowl of batter on the counter and turned to face him just as Mickey snaked his arms around his waist, Ian's arms wrapping around him too. Mickey let his head rest in the crook of Ian's neck, feeling his heartbeat against his shoulder. Ian's arms rest over him in such a way that he was cocooned in his arms, just like he wanted. 

He pulled back to make eye contact and raised a hand (his left to be specific) to cup the back of Ian's neck, thumb caressing his jaw as he stretched up on his toes to kiss him. Ian's hands seared into Mickey's upper back, right between the shoulder blades, and middle back right over his spine. He didn't pull him in, just let his hands rest there in a protective but gentle hold. When Mickey pulled his face back again, Ian's eyes were filled with relief and love but also some pain.

He wasn't wrong when he'd thought about how Ian wasn't likely to forget this any time soon. And he fucking hated that. But Ian had a point about being up front about what's going through his head if there was something off. It wasn't fair and it fucking sucked, but that's the way it fucking works. And he was going to do everything he could to avoid feeling those flames again.


End file.
